


The Appeal of Subtlety

by deerna



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward Flirting, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Desk Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Manhandling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Top Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26109121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerna/pseuds/deerna
Summary: Geralt shows up unexpectedly at Jaskier's office in Oxenfurt.Now it was his turn to be confused. “Did I misread the situation?” Jaskier wondered out loud. “Excuse me for assuming, but—you did come here for sex, didn’t you?”“I did,” Geralt finally admitted. “I didn’t want to be quite that direct.”Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh. “Sincewhenyou’re oblique about sex?”“I didn’t want to be quite that direct foronce,” Geralt muttered into his cup.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 368
Collections: Season of Kink





	The Appeal of Subtlety

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "desk sex" on my season of kink bingo card!
> 
> This was supposed to be much shorter, but Geralt apparently is very bad at flirting so it took him a while to _get there_. Hope you enjoy!  
> Fun fact: according to the games, Everluce is Geralt's favorite wine, while Jaskier's is Fiorano. Both are pretty expensive and Toussaint-produced.

Jaskier was stuck in his office grading papers when he heard knocking.

He didn’t mind teaching—actually, he loved the act of passing down the knowledge he’d gathered through the years, and loved watching new generations of poets as they studied the old masters’ work and learnt to incorporate it into their own creative pursuits—but he absolutely _hated_ being a professor. He hated fighting with the commission to get his syllabus approved, he hated coming up with tests and quizzes to make sure that everyone was doing the reading on time, and above everything he hated _grading papers._

He had tried to make it more fun for himself—and surely for the students as well—by assigning interesting themes for composition homework and obscure authors for research papers, but it didn’t change the fact that it still was tediously time-consuming.

As if it weren’t bad enough, Jaskier had to start wearing glasses to be able to correct them. The Gods have mercy on the soul of whomever had made fashionable to write in such a small hand that semester, because Jaskier was going to find them and stab them through the throat with his sharpest quill. He was too young to be wearing reading spectacles, for fuck’s sake.

Anyway. Someone was knocking at Jaskier’s door, pulling him from his professoring-induced, slightly disgruntled reverie. He frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone, but to be fair his students rarely made appointments when they came to see him.

Oh well. He was about to call it a day, either way.

“Come on in,” he called, pulling the glasses off his nose to rub tiredly at his eyes. He could feel the beginning of a headache start to bloom just behind them, but he could power through it for the sake of soothing a young learning mind’s doubts, he supposed.

The door unlocked, was pushed slightly ajar. “I’m sorry professor Pankratz,” a familiar, unstudent-like voice grumbled through the crack, lilting teasingly but good-naturedly over Jaskier’s title. “I can come back later, if this is a bad time.”

Every nerve in Jaskier’s body lit up in recognition. “Geralt!” he gasped and leapt to his feet to get the door, almost knocking over the stack of books that lived next to the desk.

“Hello, Jaskier,” Geralt said. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see _you_ ,” Jaskier exclaimed back, pulling him in a quick embrace that Geralt accepted graciously, before stepping back to really look at him.

The witcher’s attire was the most casual Jaskier had ever seen on him—just a pair of dark pants and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off well toned, scarred forearms. His swords were conspicuously absent from his back, and he had a small leather pocket attached to his belt instead of his usually cumbersome satchel. The only thing that could identify him as a witcher even to the untrained eye was the yellow of the irises, unusually bright even in the dimming light. The most extraordinary detail though—which Jaskier immediately felt terrible to be surprised about—was that he’d brushed his hair: it was neatly combed back, half gathered behind his head with a simple silver pin rather than his usual leather tie, and half loose over his shoulders. It looked so soft Jaskier was dying to touch it.

He wasn’t sure that Geralt would have allowed it, though. Sure, they’d been— _intimate_ lately, but it didn’t mean Jaskier had a blanket permission to just invade his personal space whenever he pleased. Despite what people said of him, he did have manners and also a sense of propriety. Sometimes.

He didn’t realise he’d gotten stuck staring at him like an idiot until Geralt grinned—that is to say, the corner of his mouth quirked slightly upwards—and tilted his head. “Something on my face?”

Jaskier spluttered. “Sorry—you know how it is,” he laughed at himself, stepping aside to let him in. “Grading papers is grueling work, my brain will turn into jam one of these days,” he babbled, vaguely gesturing at the desk covered in half-marked homework.

Geralt stopped mid-step, his playful expression suddenly shadowed by hesitation. “You’re busy. I could come back—”

“Oh no, don’t worry, I was just finishing when you knocked,” Jaskier waved him off reassuringly. “Give me just a second to sort these things out and I’m all yours.”

The witcher flashed him a weird smile and promptly started poking around the room. Jaskier didn’t mind, so he let him do his thing while he cleaned the mess on his desk.

“You have a very nice place here,” Geralt commented. “Cosy.”

It wasn’t much—a little furniture for storage, a couple chairs near the desk for his students, a small reading nook with a battered couch that he liked to nap on sometimes—but Jaskier felt inordinately pleased with Geralt’s approval.

“Why, thank you.”

“Do you always get to occupy the same office or are you assigned a different room every time?”

“Oh no, it’s always this one. I would call this place my home away from home, if I had a home in the first place beside this. I use the room upstairs as a bedroom when I’m in town, and as storage when I’m on the road. You didn’t think I just owned a lute and a couple of books, did you?”

“Of course not. Though I admit I was more wondering where the hell you stashed the ridiculous amount of outfits you own.”

Jaskier laughed. “You rude fuck. What about you? What are you doing in Oxenfurt? I didn’t think witchers were very requested in the Academy area.”

“They’re not,” Geralt confirmed, distractedly leafing through a book he’d picked off the shelf. “A contract nearby. The contractor asked me to meet him at the Alchemist because he had business there, and while I was waiting I heard a gaggle of students talk about one professor Pankratz-” Jaskier winced, expecting some awful piece of gossip. “So I decided to come and… say hello,” Geralt concluded instead, voice snagging on the last word.

“How nice of you,” Jaskier said, slowly, an inkling of something dawning in his chest.

“You didn’t tell me you were teaching, this semester,” Geralt kept going before he could pinpoint what it was, suddenly much closer than before. Jaskier looked up and found him looming over him from the other side of the desk, tilting his head in a way that managed to look both casual and very deliberate—like his clothes. Like his hair.

His eyes were warm and dark. Huh.

Jaskier swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Well, it wasn’t planned. Oriole—that is, professor Nowak—is a good friend and needed a favour. So here I am, teaching his Composition class while he’s off in Toussaint.” He smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Why, did you miss me?”

For a split second Geralt looked so open and raw he might as well have said yes; but he recovered quickly. “I was wondering where you were gone, that’s all,” he said, stepping back with a slight shrug.

“Now you know where I go when I disappear,” Jaskier answered, watching him carefully. “I’m very glad you came to see me.”

He put the last piece of parchment in the top drawer of his desk and got on his feet. “Why don’t you sit down while I get that half bottle of redanian herbal that I keep hidden somewhere in this mess?” He pointedly opened the fully stocked, very well organised booze cupboard behind his desk, showing off his collection.

Geralt let out a huffed laughter. “You never change,” he said, sprawling on one side of the sofa in the corner. “Do you drink while you work or after you’re done with work?”

“Yes,” Jaskier deadpanned. Geralt snorted. “No, but for real—only when I’m desperate. Which is to say—yes, always.”

He carefully considered the selection of alcoholic beverages in front of him. He _did_ have some good herbal that he usually rewarded himself with after a long day of work; he also had some other excellent spirits, strong enough that even a witcher could appreciate their intoxicating properties.

But now Jaskier suspected that Geralt hadn’t come over to get drunk.

“I thought we were drinking redanian herbal,” the witcher noted, as Jaskier uncorked the bottle he’d finally chosen and poured two generous cups. He sounded slightly on edge, but didn’t refuse the drink.

“Well, I thought wine would’ve been more appropriate for the occasion.” Jaskier smiled and gently knocked his cup against Geralt’s, the Toussaint way, and took a sip. The Everluce was rich and cloying on his tongue—a bit too much, to be perfectly honest, but he hadn’t picked it for himself.

He watched the witcher taste the wine with a slightly bewildered, if pleased, expression. “What occasion would that be, that justifies opening an expensive bottle of Everluce for a single guest?”

“First of all, you’re not just _a guest,_ ” Jaskier scoffed, “you’re a friend. Secondly, you’re not _just_ a friend,” he enunciated carefully, studying Geralt’s face. “I like spoiling my lovers with a drink of their liking. Isn’t Everluce your favorite?”

Geralt didn’t answer. He didn’t say anything for what felt like a long time. He took another sip so mechanically Jaskier was one hundred percent sure he hadn’t even felt the taste. He wasn’t looking at him, but Jaskier couldn’t tell if it was out of embarrassment or unease.

Now it was his turn to be confused. “Did I misread the situation?” Jaskier wondered out loud. “Excuse me for assuming, but—you did come here for sex, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Geralt finally admitted. “I didn’t want to be. Quite that direct.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh. “Since _when_ you’re oblique about sex?”

The first time Jaskier had a sexual interaction with the witcher, they were in the neck of the woods, in the middle of fucking nowhere to be more exact, and it was cold as balls. While they were sharing a blanket near the fire, as they were now wont to do every other night, Geralt rolled over as he tried to get comfortable on the frozen ground and ended up with his face right into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. “You smell nice,” he said, sounding so surprised Jaskier had almost taken offense. Then Geralt had continued, “can I fuck you?” and any coeherent thought had left the room.

Sex with Geralt was always very straight-forward but strangely nice. Jaskier had grown to really appreciate the candid bluntness of Geralt’s requests and demands, when he rarely had lovers that knew what they liked and how to ask for it. He also found it incredibly endearing that the witcher never failed to curl up with him for cuddles afterwards.

“I didn’t want to be quite that direct for _once_ ,” Geralt muttered into his cup. “Contrary to popular belief, I do understand the appeal of subtlety.”

“You know,” Jaskier started, softening the teasing by sitting down so that their thighs were pressed together and he could knock into Geralt’s shoulder amicably. “I knew something was up. I didn’t know exactly _what_ -”

“Of course you did, _subtlety_ is basically your bread and butter,” the witcher grouched under his breath. He didn’t sound like it meant it as a compliment, so Jaskier kept going.

“-but as soon as I saw you, all done up and without your gear and _clean-_ -”

“You _like_ clean,” Geralt retorted, still tense, still not watching him.

Jaskier smiled. “That I do. Not that I ever minded our dirty rolls in the underwoods.”

For some reason, that was the thing that finally had Geralt relax and lean into Jaskier’s touch, tension bleeding out of him. “I thought you would’ve liked something different since this is different,” he said, gesturing to the room.

“Oh, I loved it.” Jaskier gave in and touched the soft strands that covered Geralt’s shoulders, brushing them back. “What you did with your hair, especially—you look great. I’ve wanted to put my hands on you since the moment you stepped into the room.”

He would’ve said more, but Geralt picked that moment to kiss him.

There was _nothing_ subtle about the way the witcher kissed, always too deep too quickly, down to business from the very start. Not that Jaskier didn’t like it—it never failed to set his blood aflame with lust in a way that he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager—but it always squeezed at his heart, as it made him wonder if Geralt had been taught to only kiss like that, practical and efficient like everything else he did.

It was really hard to think about slowing down and just enjoy the moment when the witcher’s hands were so quick to find their way to Jaskier’s crotch, rubbing at his erection through the fabric in a very suggestive manner.

“Look at me, getting hard from necking on a couch in the middle of Oxenfurt like a juvenile poetaster,” he chuckled against Geralt’s mouth while they took a break to catch their breath. “What do you want?” he asked.

From the way he was squeezing his dick, Jaskier had a pretty good idea, but verbalizing things never hurt. Words were his craft, after all.

“You,” Geralt groaned. “Just—you.”

“Alright,” Jaskier breathed out, eyes flitting around the room as a picture painted itself in his mind. He bit his lip. “Are you okay with following my lead? I have an idea, but you might find it a little weird—”

Geralt must have seen him eye the desk, because he smirked. “Using me to fulfill unspeakable fantasies, _professor_?”

Jaskier did _not_ anticipate the effect that Geralt’s voice, breathy and approaching the fucked-out quality he oh-so-loved, had on his dick while he said that last word. _Fuck_.

“Only if you’re amenable to being used,” he forced out.

Rolling his eyes, Geralt snorted and got up from the couch. “Of course I’m _amenable_. As long as I get to come,” he added, adjusting himself in his trousers, showing off the line of his hardening cock.

“Right,” Jaskier said, his mouth suddenly dry. “Clothes off, then. Elbows on the desk, head down,” he instructed, quickly unlacing his own trousers to relieve the pressure that was getting unbearable. “Oh, and would you get the lights? I know you see fine in the darkness but _I_ don’t, and I wouldn’t want to miss anything.”

The witcher complied, dropping the discarded garments on the floor. A brief twitch of fingers and the room was bathed in gentle golden glow from the candles liberally scattered basically on every surface.

“This room is a fire hazard,” Geralt commented as he walked towards the desk. The way the flickering light played on his scarred skin was mesmerizing as he bent over the surface, his long and well shaped legs and ass on full display.

“I keep odd hours,” Jaskier mumbled absent-mindedly in a way to answer, getting up from the couch just to get down on his knees. “Spread your legs a little,” was all the warning he gave Geralt before grabbing and spreading his cheeks apart and plunging in.

Geralt jumped, swore and banged his fist on the desk, as Jaskier’s tongue licked a wet stripe over his hole.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you didn’t expect that?” Jaskier rubbed a thumb down the crease, spreading the moisture he left. “I don’t actually keep lube in the office, so…”

“I have—satchel,” Geralt panted. “If you want.”

“What?” Jaskier raised an eyebrow. He scanned the floor, looking for the leather pouch Geralt had come in with earlier and found it just next his knee. He rummaged in it, one hand still caressing down the witcher’s twitching thigh, and found the small jar of salve. It looked like the usual concoction they favoured in such occasions—herbal but pleasant, slippery but not too greasy. He _did_ come with a plan, after all.

“Do you want me to use this to open you up with my fingers,” he asked, “or do you want me to make you nice and wet with my mouth, first?”

“Mouth.” Geralt didn’t hesitate. “Please,” he tacked on after the briefest pause.

Jaskier chuckled. “So polite.”

He still greased up his hand, before pressing his face back to Geralt’s ass, so that he could give the witcher something slick to push his cock into. Geralt breathed out when Jaskier stroked him from base to tip, thumbing the spot behind his balls that made him shiver. Jaskier blew gently over his hole and couldn’t help but chuckle when the witcher twitched and cursed under his breath, toes curling against the hardwood floor. He could tell he was pretty close to his first orgasm; he must have worked himself up before coming to see Jaskier, because that had been quick even for him.

He kept biting and kissing the pale flesh of Geralt’s ass, alternating between flickering the tip of his tongue against the rim to tease him and pushing in deeply to loosen the ring of muscle, working his erection with his hand at the same time to finish him off. Eventually Geralt came with a gasp, semen splattering the dark wood of Jaskier’s desk.

Jaskier’s dick, neglected but not forgotten, twitched against his leg at the sight.

“That was fast,” he teased Geralt, getting on his feet with a grimace. He may have not been that old, but his knees weren’t what they were. “Did you even feel that?”

“Took the edge off,” the witcher mumbled, which wasn’t really an answer. He was still obediently holding the position Jaskier had put him into , elbows on his desk and head down, but he must have pushed a hand through his hair to pull at it at one point, because there was a mess of strands sticking to his forehead.

“Mmm.” Jaskier took the silver pin out that kept the half-do in place, then he used his fingers to comb his hair back and pinned it back in place, away from his sweaty nape. He leaned in and pressed a kiss on his neck. “I’m going to open you up with my fingers,” he whispered, “and then I’ll fuck you properly. Sounds good?”

Geralt shivered. From where Jaskier was pressed against him, he could feel his breath hitch. “You’ve got too many clothes on,” he pointed out. “And you—”

“Don’t worry about that.” Jaskier caressed him from shoulders to ass, feeling the knots in his back and the way he subtly relaxed under his touch. “Close your eyes and enjoy yourself,” he murmured.

He started with just one finger, slick and slow, to gauge how tight Geralt was; it had been a while since they’d seen each other last. Jaskier was only a little surprised when he didn’t meet any resistance whatsoever, slipping right up to the knuckle.

“I touched myself in the bath,” Geralt admitted at Jaskier’s inquisitive noise, pushing back into the touch encouragingly.

Jaskier hummed, added another finger easily and pressed down. “So impatient.” The witcher bit off a moan.

The wood creaked ominously.

“Hands off, my friend,” Jaskier warned with a chuckle, patting Geralt’s flank like he would a spooked horse. “Try not to break my desk, would you?”

He stroked his insides with a deep, slow push again before Geralt could muster the breath to apologize, and was rewarded with another heavy, punched out gasp. “I want to hear you, love. I know you can make more noise than this, I’ve _heard_ you,” he chided, pushing and twisting his fingers in and out as he spoke.

“People,” Geralt gritted out.

Jaskier grinned. “Yeah, that’s kinda the point, don’t you think?” It was late enough that nobody would’ve been around that wing of the building, and the quarters next to his were vacant, actually, but that wasn’t the point.

“Pervert,” Geralt chuckled. “ _More_.”

A third finger joined the other two and Jaskier kept fingering him in earnest. The witcher’s cock was starting to leak again against the side of the desk, and soft moans escaped his lips. “Do not come yet, dear,” Jaskier said, pulling his fingers out and unbuttoning his doublet. “Turn around.”

“I thought you _didn’t_ want me to break the desk,” Geralt commented, leaning up and stumbling slightly as he found his balance. He sat on the edge of the desktop, all long lines and sweaty skin, and gave Jaskier a rude smirk as he watched him get undressed, pupils blown and unfocused with arousal.

Finally naked, Jaskier shushed him and flattened him with his back against the writing surface. “Let me worry about the desk,” he replied, lining his dick with Geralt’s sloppy hole and shoving it home in one smooth slide.

They both cursed out loud at the sudden feeling of fullness and tightness and warmth and their skin pressing together, eyes and hands and lips finding each other, Geralt’s calves winding around Jaskier’s waist, his heel digging in the small of his back to encourage the rhythm of his thrusting—

The witcher came first, twitching and making a mess between them; Jaskier came right after, between the anticipation and the clenching of Geralt’s body around him. He collapsed on top of him, his forehead resting right in the groove between his pecs and Geralt’s hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as they caught their breath.

“See,” he panted, “desk still intact.”

“Congratulations, you won’t have to go buy another one tomorrow, and you won’t have to explain how you broke the first one.”

Jaskier laughed and made a weak attempt at pulling himself up, grimacing at the cooling semen stuck to his chest hair. His muscles felt like they were made of jelly. “Ugh, I don’t think I can get up,” he groaned, laying his head back down. They smelled like sweat and sex, and it was getting increasingly weird being naked in the middle of his office, but Geralt was warm and his sated humming felt like a cat purring under Jaskier’s ear and he really didn’t want to move, but—

“Come on, you big lug, help me up. I have a comfy bed upstairs.”

Geralt sat up with apparent, absolute ease, bringing Jaskier with him. He let him settle on wobbly legs and grumble something about stupidly fit witchers and unfair reservoirs of stamina and goddamn papers to grade against his neck, before picking him up like a child. Jaskier carefully _didn’t_ squeak; he just locked his ankles behind Geralt’s back and guided him to the half-hidden door that led upstairs.

“Sorry about the mess,” Jaskier apologized when Geralt gently deposited him on the half-unmade bed. “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

A shadow flickered in Geralt’s eyes. “I can go, if you want. I have a room—”

“That’s not what I meant, you dumbass,” Jaskier huffed, tugging his hand until Geralt joined him. “There’s enough room for both, I’d say.”

It took a little maneuvering under the covers, but eventually they managed to find a comfortable position—Jaskier with his head pillowed on Geralt’s chest, and the witcher with his arm wrapped around Jaskier’s shoulders.

“It was a nice surprise,” Jaskier mumbled through a yawn. “I could get used to this,” he said, caressing a hand down Geralt’s sticky abdomen. They would regret it come morning, but at the moment he couldn’t be arsed to care.

Geralt caught Jaskier’s hand and covered it with his, turned it around and squeezed it in an unexpected tender gesture. “I’m glad,” the witcher whispered.

Jaskier smiled, and leaned up to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter at @somewhatclear


End file.
